The man at the stove turned for an instant, presumably to see who had entered his domain.

And Henry’s heart just about stopped. While Antonio in the front of the house was good-looking in a slick, player sort of way, the chef was -- how could Henry put it? Rough-edged? His eyes, the color of whisky, were fierce and penetrated into Henry’s core with the simplest of glances. He had a heavy shadow of beard across his face and strong jawline, too heavy to be called five-o’clock shadow. Maybe nine o’clock or even ten. This brute probably needed to shave three times a day.

But he was gorgeous. There was something brooding, dark, and exotic about him. Henry wondered what the chef would look like clad in, oh, maybe just an apron. Shame on you! Get your mind out of the gutter!

Henry smiled weakly at him and he nodded, lifting his chin only once. If Henry hadn’t been staring so intently at him, he might have missed it. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the man. He suddenly understood what the term “awestruck” was all about. And that was maybe why he didn’t see the fifty-pound bag of yellow onions on the floor as he moved toward the chef, hoping to at least shake his hand. Henry tripped and went down hard on one knee. He grabbed for the counter as he fell and knocked off a ceramic mixing bowl, which shattered.

Henry stood, hands shaking, and then bent over to reach for the broken pieces of bowl at his feet.

“Leave it,” Carmela hissed.

Henry stood up straight again, wiping his hands on his pants. He knew his face must be cherry red because his cheeks were burning with a kind of four-alarm intensity. He looked to the chef, to give him a sheepish grin and, he hoped, get a little sympathy.

The guy had paused, but only to stare at Henry as if he were some specimen in a zoo. A chimp, maybe. He rolled his eyes, and his lips turned up in a smirk. The chef returned to his pans, and Henry felt dismissed.

Someone else was staring at him too.

Rosalie had emerged from what must have been an office in the back and was watching him watch the chef, hands on her hips. Henry felt chastened, embarrassed. What was it with this place, anyway? In the space of an hour, he’d been caught staring, googly-eyed, at two different men. No need to come out of the closet here. His eyes outed him every time!

Rosalie was framed by the darker space behind her. She wasn’t smiling. “I’m back here,” she said and turned to disappear into the room.

Feeling sheepish, Henry followed.

“Sit down,” Rosalie commanded. Henry took a seat across from her. The room was indeed her office. It was no bigger than a closet. One wall was shelves, crammed with ledgers and old cookbooks that were falling apart at the seams. A dusty window looked out on the alley behind the restaurant, and Henry could see part of the dumpster. Above her head was a painting of Jesus, his hand holding his robes open to reveal his glowing heart.

Rosalie’s desk, a dinged-up green metal affair, was covered in papers, a stapler, a rubber stamp, and an adding machine. Henry assumed the papers were invoices and order forms. He felt like he was back on the ‘L’ -- the sweat was already beginning to flow from his armpits, even though the office was air-conditioned.

“Carmela tells me you didn’t just stop by for a little lunch.”

Henry tried to give her his best smile and wasn’t sure how well he’d succeeded. He wasn’t expecting to be on his first job interview today. God, what if he couldn’t think of anything to say?

He nodded and tried to summon some saliva to his suddenly overly dry mouth. He scratched at his neck. “Um, yeah.” He took a breath and tried to mentally still his thundering heart. “I was wondering about the job you posted on Craigslist.” He scratched at himself again, then snatched his hand and held it with his other one in his lap. “For the kitchen helper?”